Questions and scenarios pummel my brain as I climb into the Explorer. Ten minutes later, I’m on the gravel track that runs parallel with Painters Creek, heading toward McCullough’s place. I slow for the bridge, and I’m dismayed to see that the water is just a foot from the center span. There aren’t many homes in this area, but if any more rain falls, the road will be under water.

I park next to McCullough’s Riviera and cut the engine. I can see his house from where I’m sitting. The porch light is on, but there are no lights on inside. I hail Mona on the radio.

“I’m ten twenty-three Jerrold McCullough’s place.”

“Roger that, Chief.”

“Will you do me a favor and call the mayor. Tell him I think we’re going to have some flooding out here and we should probably put out some kind of bulletin to let folks know.”

“Will do.” She pauses. “Glock just brought in doughnuts. Do you want me to save you one?”

“That’s affirm.” Smiling, I get out.

The first thing I’m aware of is the roar of the water from behind the house. Painters Creek is usually a meandering stream with deep fishing holes and shallow crossings where the water trickles over rocks. This morning it’s latte brown and swollen to three times its normal size. The rain has stopped, but the sky to the west is black and ominous looking, telling me there’s more on the way. What I wouldn’t do for just one day of sunshine …

I pause to look through the driver’s-side window of the Riviera. I see a pile of magazines in the backseat. A Coke can on the floor. A Netflix movie that probably needs to be dropped at the post office. I take the same path Glock and I took last night, hopping between pieces of plywood and chunks of concrete to avoid the mud. I reach the porch and knock hard on the storm door. “Jerrold McCullough! It’s Kate Burkholder with the Painters Mill PD. Come to the door, please. I need to speak with you!”

I shout the words not only to be heard above the roar of water, but because it’s still early and I know there’s a possibility McCullough is asleep. That would be a best-case scenario. I don’t believe he came home last night. I don’t believe he’s here now. I knock a second time, using the heel of my hand. Upon his arrival yesterday, Glock found the door open. But for security reasons, we locked it when we left.

When there’s no answer, I brave the mud and go around to the rear of the house. I pause at the living room window, cup my hands and try to see inside. But the curtains are pulled tight, so I continue around.